


Neglect, Abandonment, Absenteeism

by anotherjadedwriter



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse, Angst I guess, Cycle of Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Other, Physical Abuse (Past), abuse as revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 00:34:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11862930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherjadedwriter/pseuds/anotherjadedwriter
Summary: The attacks weren't enough for him, no. Now he has to act all sorry and sad around you. What a fucking waste.--whats up anyone else here like projecting personal rage onto similarly healing characters? Dave and Bro end up both alive after the game and Bro's memories are all but gone due to Cal's influence. Dave reacts to not even being able to get a proper apology (meaning, knowing what happened) by lashing out. this fic has emotional and possibly later on physical abuse, and isn't a nice read. keep that in mind, please.





	Neglect, Abandonment, Absenteeism

The new world is perfect. It's green, and everyone is alive, and you can breathe without remembering all the other versions of yourself that are dead. Well, you can push them to the back of your mind, but you can't really forget them, you guess. It's better than it was, though. Better than you ever thought it would be.

Bro is alive, too.

He's not like you remember, not exactly. He's still tall, cold, his bright eyes fogged and distant while he stares into space and still sees everything. His hair is kind of limp now. He looks fragile. He looks like he would never be able to attack and attack and attack  _ and attack and attack and attack _ you, would never even think about it. You took him to a house and he went up into the attic, like he couldn't be high enough, and you were pretty sure he'd try to crawl on the roof. Rose said you should stay with him.

You alchemized him a new Lil Cal and put it at the foot of the stairs and left. You don't want to see him.

It's been three days, now. Three days of waiting around, bugging Karkat and Rose and John and everyone you can think of to avoid going home. You should have put him in his own house, and not the one where all your shit was.

"Bro." You say, stepping inside the door. Even now, he's aware of everything around him, hears and sees too well to be anything but disconcerting. "Bro, I'm home."

Silence greets you in every room. The room you set up for him is untouched, slightly dusty. The living room, with the old futon that half makes you nostalgic, half makes panic bubble up in the back of your throat to see, is untouched. No assprint from your Bro. Dust. Your room is full of all the shit you stuffed in it. Bones, that turntable, a bed. You wonder if your interests even matter anymore. Empty.

You walk down the hall. The attic stairs are still pulled down, blocking the bathroom door. Cal sits there at the bottom, grinning, glassy blue eyes somehow less menacing. You grab one of the long felt arms and walk up the stairs, frowning at the silhouette of Bro sitting near the little square window, exactly where he was. Shoulders stiff and breathing the only movement.

"Bro. Why are you upstairs?" You ask, and he jolts up, spinning on his heel like you're gonna attack him. "I left Cal here so you'd go get some sleep."

His lips are cracked, and his voice sounds like it always did; like he was trying to remember how he sounded and just testing everything out. "Dave, the puppet." He pauses, hands pressed to his sides. Rose said he probably realized what he did. "Why is it here?"

"Oh, yeah. I made it. Don't worry, I'm fine, not that you asked. I'm good." You sigh, tossing the puppet at him with not as much force as you'd like. You're trying. "Why are you upstairs?"

He reels back like you threw a sword, his back pressing against the window as the puppet skids to a halt on the wood floor. The head knocks it off balance and it thunks on the floor, glassy eyes looking different directions, and you wonder for a second if the original one ever did that. Bro is shaking, barely, staring at the toy like it's going to move on it's own, and somewhere in your mind you remember something Karkat said, something about Gamzee insisting that Cal was basically alive, that Cal was making him do things, that Cal  _ moved  _ on his – its – own.

Something inside you blooms at the thought, the realization that Bro doesn't just dislike it; he's  _ terrified. _ He looks like he's about to bolt, orange eyes bright behind his shades (you never used to be able to see through them, though he's mentioned that they didn't change for him) and his face just showing enough emotion (really, any) to make you realize it. He's scared of the puppet.

You blink, remembering the years you were scared. No,  _ terrified _ . You were petrified, constantly on the verge of panicking because there was never a moment of calm, of safe, not really. You remember being so  _used to it_ that it felt alright to be unsafe, somehow, like you deserved it, you just weren't fighting well enough, that's all, that had to be it.

You remember the shameful  _ relief _ you felt when he died. 

The puppet is just a puppet, and he's scared of it, and you feel this disgusting blossoming sense of control, this power that you never realized you craved so deeply. You  _ need  _ this. You need to control him. You need to be  _ stronger  _ than him. Even just this tiny show, him pressing himself to the window to get back, is intoxicating in a way you wouldn't be able to explain if someone asked.

It's three short steps to pick the puppet up, and he relaxes barely when you step back while holding it. You spend a few minutes watching him, and he watches the puppet. "Go get some sleep." You say.

"Yeah." Bro mumbles, not moving. You put the puppet in your sylladex, and he shuffles past you, giving you a berth you'd have cut your own arm off for when you were younger. "I'll do that."

As you watch him go, you're left thinking about that power, that rush of strength that came so, so easily. You stuff it into the back of your mind and decide to go to bed. It's late, anyway. You'll figure out what to do with all this once you get some sleep.

Bro is sitting stock still on the futon, eyes forward and hands mock relaxed over the arm and the back. He looks just like he always did, sitting, staring forward even though there's no shitty TV shows yet. You walk around behind him and drop the puppet on the counter in the kitchen, grab a bottle of apple juice, and go to your room. It's in the same place as it was in your apartment before the game; you mean, you're not totally sure what changes you'd apply if you decided to. Moving a room, changing the layout, it would just be mean to Bro. He's been dead, not on some meteor or in some other dimension learning a new path to the bathroom.

Though, maybe him showering less wouldn't hurt.

He's basically the same as before, but he's not interacting with you. Maybe that's the same, though. You don't know if there's any real precedent for what he's supposed to be like, if he's not making you fight him all the time.

Rose told you to leave him alone, but, you mean, he wasn't doing it for fun. Probably.

You stare at the ceiling, breathing slowly, and wait to sleep. It's disconcerting how connected you are to time now, how you can close your eyes and think about it a little and time isn't moving when you open your eyes again.

An hour, ten minutes and 15 seconds after you pass out, you feel eyes on you. When you look, they’re real. Plastic, blue, wide eyes, staring at you. For an instant you forget that you made it and think that somehow, Cal is back, and you almost scream for Bro to take it away and save you, and then you’re up and gasping as you throw it down the hall. It’s his toy, he can play with it.

You’re shaking so hard you almost mistake the clatter for just being the doll hitting the floor, but it’s more than that; sneakered feet and almost silent cursing. You must have startled Bro, you think, but nothing else moves. There’s no sounds for a long, long few minutes, and you have to check. You walk down the hall, into the kitchen, and see something you don’t understand.

Bro is on the counter, his legs curled to his chest (you never realized how skinny he was before now, but he looks like he’s been starving for a year) and his eyes wide. His glasses aren’t on his face. Maybe he was sleeping. The thing you notice last is that he’s shaking, eyes wide and wet and, in this light, scared. On the floor, there’s Cal 2.0, smiling into space. It looks menacing in the dark.

When you turn the light on, it’s like you flipped a switch for Bro, too. He looks at you suddenly, eyes narrowing into a too-cool glare. “Where are your glasses?” Like he isn’t on the counter, cowering away from a puppet.

“In my room.” You walk into the kitchen and pick up the doll; Bro flinches. “Where are yours?”

He’s watching Cal, not you, when he responds. “I took them off to sleep.” That’s not something you couldn’t guess, but you realize that he’d never admitted to actually needing sleep before.

Though, he’d always woken you up at all hours of the night to check that you had your sword.  _"Sneak attacks, kid. Be ready next time and you won't sleep on bloody sheets."_

“Cal is for you. Don’t put him in my room.” You almost correct yourself, call it an it, but it’s too natural to call Cal ‘him’, especially to Bro. “That wasn’t funny.”

He blinks, slowly, and looks in your eyes. “I don’t want it.”

That strength, power you need so bad it makes you feel sick, bubbles up in your mind and you thrust it at him, trying not to shake at how it makes him shrink. “He’s yours. Take him.” The doll’s limbs hang limply, its head leaned forward, and you almost smirk.

“Dave.” He breathes, and it sounds like he’s going to cry. “Please. I didn’t, it wasn’t me.”

You falter, for a second, before stepping closer, pushing him into the cabinet. “I don’t care. I don’t want an apology. Take your puppet.” The way your voice sounds makes you both sick and giddy; it’s like his was, when you were a kid, when you were so scared, and now he’s shaking and you can see his eyes and he’s almost crying and it feels so much better.

“I’m sorry.” He says, taking the doll with shivering hands and holding it as far from him as he can. “I’m sorry, Dave. I really fucked up.”

For a second, you just look at him, shaking and crying and holding the puppet that made you so scared you had to have rubber sheets, and then you smile. “It’s too late now, though, isn’t it?” You shouldn’t be as pleased as you are, but you can’t help it.

“Yeah.” He says, but you’re walking away already, ignoring the clatter as he drops the puppet and the squeak as he sneaks past it to the futon. “Sorry.”

The door slams behind you and you pant, harsh breaths that make your body  _ hurt  _ to breathe, and you run to the bathroom connected to your room, falling face-first almost into the toilet as you puke, the small amount you managed to stomach before coming here splashing as you retch. When you finish you’re shaking, barely strong enough to flush the toilet and leaning your face against the side for a long minute.

When you’re brushing your teeth, you try not to think about it and the rush of feeling so  _ good  _ that made you sick, and you don’t look in your own eyes as you finish up.

You sleep soundly, and you want to hate it.

In the morning, you find the puppet, sitting on it’s side, just inside your door. You know you didn’t leave it there. Something like rage surges through you and you snatch it, not even bothering to get dressed before stumbling out to the living room, to Bro--

Bro, sleeping on his back, his feet on the arm. Like he’s exhausted. He hardly twitches when you walk over. Vaguely, you wonder if he ever really slept before the game. He had to sleep some, obviously, but was it just enough to stay alive, to function?

You shove the thought out of your mind as you lift the puppet. “Bro.”

Immediately, he wakes up, and you see his eyes widen (still behind shades, but you can tell, you can see it), and then he shoves himself back, his jaw clenched like he’s trying not to scream. He thuds onto the floor gracelessly, still shoving himself back until he hits the wall and you chase him with the puppet, your eyebrows pulling together and your mouth pulling down in a frown.

“What we got here is a failure to communicate.” You hiss, waiting for the recognition, the response of him being  _ scared  _ because you’re using that stupid line that he used to, before training, before he beat the  _ shit  _ out of you.

Bro looks confused. His fear ebbs, eyes flicking to yours. “W-what?” He doesn’t understand. How can he  _ forget  _ that? How can he keep that from you, keep you from getting  _ back  _ at him like that?

“What we got  _ here _ \--” You jam the puppet into his chest and he whimpers, like it hurts. You feel better. “Is a failure to communicate. You keep that  _ fucking  _ puppet. It’s yours. He’s your  _ friend _ , Bro.”

He sobs, actually sobs, but doesn’t push it out of his lap. “Dave, please.” He sounds  _ weak _ , and you feel yourself getting sick, feel your ego inflate, feel an emotion like getting off and getting so drunk you can’t feel your face. “Dave. I don’t remember.” He’s shaking. “I don’t remember. I’m so sorry. I didn’t-- I never should have hurt you. I can’t-- I can’t have this near me.” He’s sobbing, scrambling up against the wall, and you wonder if he was always this small when he slouched before. “Please.” Cal’s face thuds to the floor hollowly, and you look at it instead.

You used to be terrified of this thing, but it’s just a thing, now. You used to resent it almost more than you did Bro, almost more than the bathroom stitches and alcohol on the wound and  _ “boys don’t cry, Dave, stop being a bitch”  _ and the swords in the kitchen. Almost. Now it’s just a thing, and when you pick it up and hold it towards Bro, he just shudders, looking weaker than anything you’ve ever seen. Weaker than anyone. And it’s exactly what you want.

“If I see you drop Cal again,” You feel the words in your mouth, mirroring what he’d told you before. “I’ll cut your dick off and feed it to you. Make you as much of a pansy on the outside as you act.”

He looks you dead in the eyes, but takes it. “Dave.” His voice is all weak and snotty. Disgusting. You’d have gotten an extra training session if you did that.

Can he even use a sword? He seems broken, now. Like Dirk came and replaced him with a better model, a brother who wants you to be happy and who doesn’t try to kill you every morning. You walk away, past him, to get some juice. Let him be broken. You don’t need him anymore.

Softly, he mumbles, behind your back. “Dave, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please take the--” He sobs, shakes, when you look at him. “Please take it away, I’m sorry.” The glass in your hand shatters against the wall and he yelps, curling in on himself.

“Oh, now you’re sorry. Now, when you have to fucking face what happened? You’re sorry  _ now?”  _ You list around for something, and grab Cal again, chasing Bro off the futon with it until he hits a wall, and that strong-sick feeling twists in your stomach, but you’re still yelling. “What makes you so fucking  **special** that you get to be sorry now?”

Bro shakes, his shades fall off. “I don’t know. I should still be dead. I was never supposed to make you see me again.” His eyes are so distant.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is dark and projecting a lot but please don't like... be shitty to me. I know it's shitty, I'm not condoning any of this, I'm not excusing Bro of being a shitbag, I'm writing something that makes me feel like I'm processing my life better. xx  
> (if you liked it here's my link for tips I guess: ko-fi.com/A781PZJ )


End file.
